


Forgiveness is Sweet

by authoressjean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Dean Winchester, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angsty Schmoop, Brotherly Love, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Episode: s15e14 Last Holiday, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s15e14 Last Holiday, Season/Series 15, Season/Series 15 Spoilers, Voicemail, lots of cake, yes I went there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:20:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27531388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/pseuds/authoressjean
Summary: In an attempt to reassure Jack about where he stands with Dean, Sam imparts some personal experience with seeking Dean's forgiveness. It's a hard road, and he's got the voicemail to prove it.Except Dean's listening in, and Dean? Dean's got another cake to bake.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jack Kline & Sam Winchester
Comments: 47
Kudos: 317
Collections: Sam Winchester WHUMP





	Forgiveness is Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> Between my thesis, a recently sprained ankle, and the penultimate episode of Supernatural airing tonight, I pulled this together and am desperately posting in before tonight comes through and makes mince meat of us all.
> 
> Yes, I had to address the voicemail because show is literally out of time to do so. (It's given us other gifts recently so I can only be so bitter, but yes. That damn voicemail still haunts me.)
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this!

“So.”

Sam glanced up. Jack stood in the doorway, looking awkward. It was good to see, in a way. It was awkward in a way only a soul could give.

Jack had his _soul_ back. He was there and alive and souled and currently digging the tip of his sneaker into the floor.

Sam cleared his throat, making Jack look up. “So…?” Sam prompted when it didn’t seem like Jack would continue.

Jack made a face that made it clear he was trying to find the words he wanted. Sam just sat at his desk and waited. It was just more research that he’d wanted to take back to his room. If he sat out in the main room, well. The lights weren’t as bright as he could make them in here. And he wouldn’t be tempted to try and smell fresh cake.

He wished Mrs. Butters well. He just sort of wished she hadn’t come crashing into their life and offered him something he knew he’d never get again.

“Does Dean think I’m a monster?”

Sam blinked. “I just…he didn’t tell Mrs. Butters no,” Jack said, almost in a rush. “You told her I wasn’t a monster, and I, I appreciate that, Sam. But Dean didn’t say I wasn’t. He said I could save the world. That was all.”

Crap. He’d sort of hoped that Dean’s offering of a cake, along with Castiel’s return, would sort of stall this sort of conversation. Dean _was_ trying, but trying to explain that to Jack would mean trying to give him almost 40 years of knowing Dean. Dean didn’t make cake for those he hated. Dean didn’t make cakes for monsters.

Getting Dean to say it in words, though, that was harder.

Jack stood, waiting, looking less like the guy who could take on God and very much like a little boy, desperate for his hero to love him. Desperate to know that he could be loved and forgiven after committing a massive atrocity.

Sam knew what that felt like.

He sighed and pushed away from the desk a little. “Dean’s never been good with words. He’s…way more about action. His words either come two ways: way too fast or too slow. He’ll say things he means in the heat of the moment but they aren’t what he really feels. What he does, though, that’s far more of an indication of where his head’s at. He _did_ make you a cake,” he felt like pointing out. And it hadn’t been bad either. The cake had been nine types of fluffy and Dean had even bought one of those gel tubes to write out a birthday message. Dean had bought _sprinkles_.

Jack gave a small nod but still looked uncertain. “Just…give it time,” Sam said softly. “That’s all.”

“You sound like you’ve got experience,” Jack said, startling Sam for the second time in as many minutes.

“What?”

“Well. With knowing how to handle Dean acting instead of saying things.”

That was definitely not anything Sam wanted to talk about. Eyes glancing briefly at his cell phone, Sam just shrugged. “I know Dean probably better than I know myself,” Sam said with a weak laugh. “It’s what you get for living in a guy’s back pocket for your entire life.”

“Has Dean ever called you a monster and not really meant it?”

Sam inhaled sharply then forced himself to let it out. The exhale trembled. “It’s, it’s not like that.”

“So he has,” Jack said, frowning. “But…he clearly loves you. So he didn’t mean it?”

Oh, he’d meant it all right. The words were etched into Sam’s memory, his very psyche, and even if Sam hadn’t been willing to remember the voicemail that Dean had left him, Lucifer had made certain he’d never forget.

But Dean hadn’t killed him that night. Dean had taken Ruby out and then left him alive. Had even taken him back. After thinking about it for…some time, Sam had figured that Dean had been more than steamed, he’d been actually ready to kill Sam, but had changed his mind after he’d calmed down.

It was a good thing to know, to remember. That Sam could go beyond his brother’s love, that he could fall that far.

“No,” Sam said, and his voice sounded strangled. He cleared his throat. “No, he, uh, he meant it, when he left the message. But he got past it; it was a really long time ago. I kept myself straight, and eventually he forgave me.” At least, Sam was pretty sure he’d been forgiven. Dean hadn’t mentioned a blank slate in a long time, which meant it wasn’t front and center in Dean’s mind. It wasn’t ever really a blank slate. Not really. Better to just not even have it be a big deal.

Jack gave a small nod. “So just…wait? I shouldn’t ask him?”

“I wouldn’t,” Sam said immediately. “Give him time. Just remember: he took the time to make you a cake. He told you how he felt right there.”

“He told me Happy Birthday Jack,” Jack said. “I don’t think it’s even my birthday.”

Sam felt his lips turn up. “Exactly. Those words should tell you everything.”

Jack nodded, a little more firmly now, and headed for the door. “Jack,” Sam called, catching him right before he left. “Just…give it time, best advice I can tell you. And let it go.”

“…Okay. Thanks, Sam. And…thanks. For standing up for me.”

Sam smiled at him warmly and waited until he left. The smile fell and his fingers sought out his cell phone. He couldn’t help it. It was like a worry stone in the ugliest way. A talisman of his mess-up, the worst thing he’d ever done, the farthest he’d ever fallen. The point when Dean had stopped loving him, stopped wanting him alive, even for a brief period of time.

His fingers brushed over the familiar menu options until the voicemail began to play through the speaker. “ _Listen to me, you blood-sucking freak…”_

Sam swallowed hard at the words. “Just let it go,” he murmured. That was the best way to manage it. That was what he’d learned.

He set it away after the message had played and turned back to his research.

* * *

That…that, he couldn’t let go.

Dean leaned back against the wall, eyes on nothing. He’d been walking down to talk with Sam and heard Jack’s voice, which had made him slow because…because he didn’t want to deal with it for a little bit. Jack was hard. Having him there was a blessing and a curse. He’d get over it.

But then Sam had started talking. And then Dean had sort of forgotten all about Jack.

When Jack had headed for the door, Dean had walked away. Waited until Jack had gone, then headed back for Sam again, looking for answers to two conversations, now.

Then he’d heard his own voice, unmistakable, spewing the nastiest words he’d ever heard. And all of it clearly at Sam.

Blood-sucking freak. Done saving you. Monster.

And the most damning voice of all: Sam’s, quiet, accepting. Resigned. _Just let it go._

He wasn’t sure how long he stood in the hallway, trying to figure out what to do with the new information. The first question he asked himself was where the voicemail had come from, because it damn well hadn’t come from him. It didn’t take long because Dean hadn’t left a lot of voicemails for Sam, over the years. And Sam’s words had been the final clue. _It was a really long time ago. I kept myself straight._ Which meant it had been around the demon blood incident. When Lucifer had been released.

For a long time, Dean had wondered how Sam, king of the chick-flick scenes, could so utterly ignore Dean’s heartfelt voicemail, ignore Dean so completely, and go forward with killing Lilith. It had just been another sign of how far gone Sam had been, and everything else had felt like betrayal, Sam’s penitence almost a falsehood. Dean had nursed that pain for a long time.

To know now that Sam had never gotten it, that what he’d gotten had been utter trash, explained a lot about. Well. The last ten years, more or less.

_“But he clearly loves you. So he didn’t mean it?”_

_“No, he meant it… Eventually he forgave me.”_

Sam had kept the voicemail. Heard it numerous times, if Dean had to guess. Ten years of believing your brother thought you were a monster, of believing your brother wanted to kill you.

Dean was in Sam’s doorway before he realized it. His footsteps caught Sam’s attention from where he sat at his desk, books in front of him. “Hey,” Sam said, and he even _smiled_ , like the world hadn’t suddenly shifted again, like he hadn’t just heard a memory of Dean say he was all but going to hunt Sam down.

He did the only thing he could do. He shut down. “Hey. Uh. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I was just trying to see if we could get our own power source to run everything like Mrs. Butters did, but it would take some serious magic. I don’t think we need any sort of power like that aimed at the bunker. Bigger fish to fry.”

It was a normal conversation, nothing at all different about it, and Dean suddenly realized that they’d had millions of these normal conversations since Sam had gotten that voicemail. Where Sam had believed that it was from Dean and kept going beside Dean anyway. Had believed that at some point, Dean had either forgotten about it or just forgiven him.

Something rose in his throat and he managed to choke it down. “Yeah,” he managed when the feeling passed. “Yeah.”

Sam frowned and began to rise, honest to god worry in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

Oh dammit, the kid was actually going to try and comfort him, and no. There was only so much Dean could stomach. “I’m just,” he started, and the lines between Sam’s forehead only grew. “It just feels like I’m drowning,” he finally confessed, because that was safe. And it was true. As was, “I don’t know how the hell you’re managing it.”

Sam paused, worry evening out into something that looked a lot like patience. “I don’t know. I’ve got books to look through, new things to think over. And…I’ve got you.” His lips turned up briefly. “You’ve always been there for me, even when I didn’t deserve it. That means a lot to me, you know. Between the two of us, I think…I think we can figure this out.”

If Dean heard a moment more, he was going to implode. And every casual sentence he wanted to offer like he usually did fell flat inside of him. _Just don’t get lost in the books,_ he wanted to say but it sounded accusatory. _Keep yourself out of trouble,_ but that was going to be taken wrong now that he had this newfound knowledge that burned through him, as would _When have books ever helped us?_ Or even, _I don’t know that we can do this._ Because Sam wouldn’t take it as “we” and only take it as “me”. Because clearly, Dean didn’t think he was worth anything.

Had everything Dean said over the past ten years just sounded empty? Had Sam believed _any_ of it? When had he figured Dean had forgiven him?

His head hurt. Staying there, with Sam earnestly watching him, left his skin crawling. There were no words for him to really say.

But he had to. And suddenly, the words actually came easily because they were that important to say. “Yeah, well, good. Because I can’t do this without you.”

He saw the denial and before Sam could say anything, he plowed ahead. “No, I know you think I can but trust me, Sam, I can’t. Because there’s no one else I could trust like you. You get that, right?” _Please tell me you get that._

“Dean, I—”

“You’re the one I’ve always been able to rely on. No matter what’s going on between us, I can always depend on you to be there and do the right thing. So if you think we’ve got a chance at doing this, then it’s because you’re beside me.”

It was far more than he’d really wanted to say but once he’d gotten started, it’d been hard to stop. Especially since Sam’s response was to stare at Dean like he had three heads, eyes swimming with visible tears.

Dean swallowed. “So keep going on whatever you’re doing but don’t get lost in the books until your head hurts, all right?”

A jerky nod. “All right then,” Dean said. And he turned and left before he lost it completely, either by throwing things and screaming or crying himself. Neither were going to get him anything except a worried brother.

It wasn’t until he found himself in the kitchen that he realized he had nothing to do to keep himself busy. He found the dishes he’d dirtied not long ago and started washing them, needing something else to do. Anything to avoid remembering the lost look on Sam’s face, or the venomous copy of his voice coming from the phone.

“Um.”

He glanced up mid-wash to find Castiel frowning from the doorway. “Are you all right?” Castiel asked, still frowning. “You’re glaring at a baking pan.”

“It needs to be washed.”

“Is there a particular rush to wash it?”

He almost said no. Almost. But then he remembered something else Sam had said, and suddenly he had a purpose. “Yeah. I’ve gotta bake something.”

“Bake something?” Castiel asked, sounding bewildered. “Did that nymph…infect you with something?”

It made him smile, just a little, because the memory of Castiel looking nine types of annoyed that he’d somehow missed the whole Mrs. Butters thing was too funny to ignore. Even Sam had gotten in on it, grinning like he hadn’t in far too long.

Dean turned his focus back to the pan. “It’s a long story. But I need to bake a cake.”

A pause. “All right,” Castiel said, like Dean hadn’t said anything out of the ordinary, and it made Dean stupidly grateful for the angel who never quit. “Do you need any help?”

The first and instant response was _no_ , but then he thought better of it. “That depends. Think you can fix a phone?”

* * *

The books had nothing. Not that Sam had really expected anything there, really, but it was something he could do besides banging his head against the wall. Chuck would probably love him doing that.

It gave him something else to think about besides Dean’s words.

They were things Dean had said before. Blank slate, never put anyone before you, we’ll figure it out. It had been Dean trying to forgive him, to push past it. It had been more than Sam had deserved but he’d selfishly taken it anyway. They’d all been heartfelt, Sam thought, but there’d still been the harsher echo of Dean’s words from the voicemail that Sam couldn’t bring himself to part with. Just like Jack’s cake, Dean had clearly put his own feelings aside and was trying to forgive.

But Dean’s words to him an hour ago felt…different.

_There’s no one else I could trust like you. No matter what’s going on between us, I can always depend on you to be there and do the right thing._

It made Sam think back to when Chuck had left them without a plan, without hope, in the casino. No one else had believed Chuck, not really, not like Sam had. Sam still thought Chuck had told the truth, but the feeling that he’d screwed it up, _again_ , had pounded in his chest until he’d thought he’d be sick.

Then Dean had asked him what he believed. And he’d just…accepted it. Because Sam believed it, he’d believed it, too.

It felt a bit like being cast out to sea without a map. These were uncharted waters and Sam honestly had no idea what to do next.

A knock on the door caught his attention, gratefully giving him something else to do besides think. Castiel smiled at him as he came in. “Anything?” Castiel asked.

Sam winced. “No. I didn’t think there would be, but I had to try. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Castiel said immediately and fervently. “Sam, you’ve gone beyond what anyone else would even try to do, given that we’re, what, going up against _God_? Be kinder to yourself. You and your brother both just need to take a break.”

More words that Sam didn’t know what to do with, though they were easier from Castiel in some ways. “Uh, thanks, Cas,” he said haltingly. Castiel smiled like Sam had done something right. It made Sam clear his throat. “Was there something I needed to know about…?”

“Yes,” Castiel told him. “Dean wanted to show you something. And I need to borrow your phone.”

“Did he find something?” Sam said as he rose. He handed Castiel the phone after he’d unlocked it and started heading for the hallway.

“He found something,” Castiel told him. “Answers of a sort.”

Leave it to Dean to figure something out. Sam all but ran to the main room where he found Dean standing beside one of the tables. His brother had a smile on, but it looked pained, almost apprehensive.

In his hands was a plate with the silver food dome on top of it.

Sam stuttered to a halt. “Um,” he said, and that was about it, because what the heck?

“You only got one birthday,” Dean said. “There’s a lot we missed, so I figured hey, might as well catch up.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“You don’t have to do that. Honest. I mean, it’s sweet, but we can skip my birthday.” Every year if Sam had his way.

Dean gave him a look like he could tell what Sam was thinking. “Come over here and get cake,” Dean said instead.

He figured that deserved an eyeroll, but he made his way over to Dean nonetheless. The aromatic smell of freshly baked cake couldn’t be hidden by the silver cover. “Cas said you found something,” he said. Dean gestured to the chair, which Sam sat in when it seemed nothing else seemed otherwise forthcoming. “He said you found answers.”

“I did,” Dean said. Then he set the plate down and lifted the dome off.

If Jack’s cake had been a serious effort, then Sam’s was pure dedication. There were fresh strawberries cut and artfully arranged in a devil’s trap, and the frosting was perfectly smooth. There were sprinkles pressed into the side along with more strawberries and blueberries, and there had to be at least three or four layers to the cake, it was so tall.

Sam blinked. Then his eyes caught the words on the top, really saw them, and he blinked again.

The print was far smaller than on Jack’s, but Dean had clearly had more to say. There was no _Happy Birthday_ message, either.

Instead, there was a simple, _Thanks For Sticking With Me._ And in the corner was a neatly written _Bitch_ that stupidly made his eyes sting.

Sam swallowed back his first wave of emotions, then the second wave, before daring to look up at Dean. Dean’s smile didn’t look as pained, but it had also softened. “What’s this for?” Sam finally managed to ask.

“Because you deserved it,” Dean said.

Never mind uncharted waters, this was uncharted galaxies, Sam spinning through space with no idea what was up or down. “I should be telling you this,” Sam admitted, glancing at the cake. There’d been some serious time sunk into this cake. Castiel had to have helped.

“Pretty sure it’s the other way around, Sammy.”

Nothing made sense. “What is going on?” Sam finally asked, bewildered. “Dean, seriously, you didn’t need to make me a cake. Pretty sure the next birthday on the list was yours, anyway.”

Dean finally sighed and leaned against the table. At least that much was familiar: this hunched over, anger dancing in his eyes brother that could managed to look so defeated even while he looked furious enough to tear into something.

It took a moment for Dean to find his voice, but when he did, it wasn’t anything Sam had been expecting. “Do you think I’ve forgiven you?”

Sam went still. “For?” he managed to ask.

“Anything,” Dean replied, voice equally soft now. “Pick something, any something. Do you believe that I’ve forgiven you?”

It felt like a trap, and Sam fell back ten years, Dean cursing him out and swearing to kill him in his ears. Same sinking feeling in his gut, same everything.

He blinked and he was back in the bunker, Dean watching him, giving nothing away. “I thought you had,” Sam hedged carefully. “I…don’t blame you if you haven’t.”

Dean turned away, running a hand over his face. This was agitation, frustration, and Sam had to have gotten it wrong. “What brought this up?” he asked, trying to stall for time while his mind spun.

“Something I found out from a little birdy,” Dean said cryptically. He began to speak, then stopped, then finally rose up to almost loom over Sam. “I baked a cake for Jack.”

“…I know,” Sam said, half a question.

“And I baked a cake for you.”

“I see that.”

“I put a lot of time into them.”

“I definitely see that. Dean—”

“I don’t put time into things that aren’t worth it,” Dean stressed, pursing his lips. “And okay, it’s not really for your birthday, I don’t care about your birthday or mine. You know that. I care about your next day, and the day after that. The days you’re alive. Those matter to me. Today matters.”

He couldn’t have moved if Chuck himself had dropped into the middle of the bunker. “You matter,” Dean said, quieter now. “You always have. And I wish like hell you’d never thought otherwise.”

_Just remember: he took the time to make you a cake. He told you how he felt right there._

Jack’s birthday cake had promised that Dean was trying, as hard as it was to do. Giving Jack something when Dean himself couldn’t find the words. This…

This wasn’t trying. This was determination to get it right, to tell Sam everything in homemade buttercream frosting and neatly-sliced strawberries. It was a perfectly crafted _I love you_ and so much more that Sam felt his lower lip give. He jutted his chin out and managed to keep himself together.

Dean watched him silently, apparently having said his piece. Sam’s turn, and this was still uncharted, so uncharted, but he could hazard a guess as to what he should say, even if he had no clue where the hell this had come from. “Just one cake?” he teased. “That’s all?”

Relief flooded Dean’s eyes, and his lips turned up into a grin. “I’ll make you as many damn cakes as you want, Sammy. Not tonight because I’m pretty sure I’ve used every single dish in the kitchen, but…yeah.”

Sam’s own lips found themselves inching upward. “Do I actually get a slice, or is it just to look at?”

“Bitch,” Dean muttered, but he grabbed a knife from where he’d apparently put plates and utensils and hey, he’d grabbed plates and utensils and two cold beers, and every inch of the planning this had taken made Sam just want to hug him.

“Jerk,” he said instead, and Dean’s grin broadened.

* * *

“You didn’t tell him.”

Dean glanced over at where Castiel stood in the doorway of the kitchen. “Tell him?” he asked.

“Tell Sam. About the false voicemail.”

“I couldn’t, until you got it fixed.” Dean frowned. “Did you?”

“I couldn’t do it.”

Dean wasn’t particularly surprised by Castiel’s voice filled with anger and self-recrimination. Resigned at the words, but not surprised. “I’m sorry,” Castiel said quietly, coming to sit across from him in the kitchen. “I tried everything I could think of.”

“No, that’s, that’s a lot, Cas. Thank you.”

Castiel shrugged and rested his arms on the table, hands clenched into fists. There was fury in his eyes, and when Dean raised an eyebrow, he shook his head. “I heard it,” he said lowly. “The voicemail. It’s absolutely not from you, I know the message you left for Sam ten years ago. Zachariah must have changed it.”

Dean glanced down at the tabletop. It’d been a good night, though Sam’s bewilderment had hurt to see. Clearly, he hadn’t known what the hell to do with Dean’s gift of a cake. He’d understood what it had meant, at least. The cake had just been the start, but the rest of the words Dean had wanted to say hadn’t made their way out. Not without some way to prove it, prove what he’d really said all those years ago.

“Will you tell him?”

Dean snorted. “With what proof? Cas, that voicemail’s been on his phone for the last _ten years_. It’s embedded into his very being. He thinks I called and left that message, threatening to kill him, telling him he was a monster. It’s not like other things I’ve said haven’t sounded like that, which is why Sam’s never questioned it. Just assumed that somewhere along the way, I’ve forgiven him and life moves on.”

“You could tell him what you left in the original voicemail.”

“Nothing I haven’t been telling him for years,” Dean said quietly. “That we’re brothers, that I was sorry. Sorrier now that I know what really happened.” He could strangle Chuck. Chuck had done so much damage, more than Dean had ever known. His fingers curled with the very thought of closing them around Chuck’s stupid, arrogant neck.

Castiel hummed. “Maybe. Maybe it’d mean more, now. To know why you made the cake, what you really wanted him to know.”

There wasn’t much that Dean could really do beyond ask Sam to believe him. Knowing Sam, he’d think it was just something else Dean said because he had to. “I hate Chuck,” Dean said with a growl. “I really do.”

“Join the club,” Castiel said. A moment later, he nudged Dean’s foot underneath the table. “Go to bed, if you can. I saw the number of slices missing from that cake. You made an obscene amount of frosting.”

“I wasn’t the one who ate what wouldn’t fit on the cake,” Dean pointed out, but he rose, joints stiff and aching. “Just saying.”

“No, but you did fight me for it.”

Dean grinned and headed for the door. “Tell him,” Castiel called behind him, making him pause. “I think he’d be more receptive to the idea than you think.”

Probably. Sam had always been far more forgiving than Dean had. “I will,” Dean said. “I just…need to find some better words than, ‘Oh hey, that voicemail you’ve been carrying around for the last ten years is a fake, and I don’t think you’re a monster, and I never wanted you dead.’ Not sure how that’ll go over.”

He stepped out into the hallway and stopped. Because there, leaning against the wall like he’d been there a while, was Sam. Dean immediately glanced back in at Castiel, and the asshole was actually smiling at him, because of course he was. “Freaking busybody angel,” he muttered.

Sam didn’t look upset, or lost like he had earlier. He didn’t look hurt, either, which Dean took as a bonus. He looked…blank, and that wasn’t something Dean was used to seeing on Sam. Not the kid who still wore his heart on his sleeve. “Sam?” he asked quietly, stepping completely into the hallway.

“Not real,” Sam said, barely above a whisper, but he still heard the question in it.

Dean slowly shook his head. “No. None of it. I would never, Sammy.”

Sam nodded once, a slow nod like he was mulling it over, and then an instant later he was in Dean's arms, hugging the life out of him. Dean held on back, not at all surprised when Sam ducked a little, letting Dean firmly press his chin into Sam’s shoulder. Taller than Dean by several inches, his kid could still hunch down to huggable heights when he needed to. Like right then, arms underneath Dean’s in order to let Dean hold on firmly.

Guess he didn’t have to figure out a way to say it, after all.

When they pulled back, Sam’s eyes were as shiny as Dean had figured they’d be. “You okay?” Dean asked quietly. “I mean, it’s not like I just rocked your world or anything.”

“No offense, Dean, but that makes it sound like we slept together.”

Dean gaped at him a little, then gave him a quick shove, unable to hold back the snort of amusement. Sam’s grin was a little wobbly but still there. “Ass,” Dean accused, but it was the best response to tell Dean, _I’m okay_. Somehow in the past who knew how many years, Sam had grown up into someone who was capable of dealing with heartache and moving onward. Even when the heartache came from thinking his big brother wanted him dead.

It dimmed the moment, just a little. “Do me a favor and delete the damn thing, will you?” he asked. “Just…make it go.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. I will. Just…thank you. It shouldn’t matter, I mean, it was ten years ago—”

“You kept it all this time,” Dean said, and he had a damn good idea why Sam had kept it. It made him mad, it made him _furious_. It made him ache. “So yeah, it matters.”

Sam didn’t seem to have anything to say to that. It wasn’t often that Sam struggled with words, so Dean did the only thing he could: gave Sam a safe place to land. “I gotta bake you another cake?”

“Please don’t,” Castiel called from the kitchen. “I’m still recovering from the sugar content of the first one. And Jack absolutely does _not_ need any more sugar, either.”

Sam sputtered out a laugh. “I didn’t hear you complaining about it at the time,” Dean called back, ducking his head around the corner. Castiel looked the appropriate amount of amused and irritated. Yeah, Cas was still clearly as upset about the voicemail as Dean was.

“No, no cake,” Sam assured them both. His smile was small but genuine, and it stuck around. “I’m, uh, still savoring the last one. I think it’ll last me for a while.”

“That good, huh?” Dean asked.

Sam’s smile grew a little. “The best thing I could’ve asked for.”

It was more hope than Dean had felt in a while. With Chuck still between them and freedom, he hadn’t expected to feel this good about anything. But the smile and happiness on Sam’s face felt contagious, and it was undoing another thing that Chuck had set in motion.

Jack came down the stairs then, glancing at Dean with a small smile, and Dean found himself returning it. Because why not.

“I heard there was more cake?” Jack asked, and there was Cas, insisting there wasn’t, and Sam’s smile turned into chuckles. It felt good.

They could do this. They had to.

And maybe, just maybe, Dean would be able to hold on to this. Including Sam, smiling, no lingering doubts of where he stood with Dean.


End file.
